Conversations With Murphy
by Jennifer Lynn Weston
Summary: Three vignettes set in the post-'Abducted' AU. James, Jack and Mare each have some words with their extraordinary new employer. PG for references to violent events.
1. Chapter 1: Meredith

_'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney_

xxx

Meredith Norrington shaded her eyes to peer up the gently-sloped bridle trail, glad to see it was clear all the way to the ridge crest. She loved full-speed riding best of all. "Yah!" she barked, spurring the bay gelding. Her mount surged forward, hooves beating the thrumming rhythm of a gallop, trees and grass blurring past.

It was a rare treat, being able to indulge in recreational activities immediately after a Mission. In any place reached by Timenet, even ordinary sightseeing posed some risk- just bumping into someone, or drawing their eye, might possibly distract them at a 'crux' moment, when their attention needed to be on something belonging to their own era.

But this job (specifically: stealing an ill-informed poison pen letter from a postal box before the recipient read it and severed all communications with the repentant sender, which would've had repercussions well beyond that relationship) had been accomplished in her 'residential time', where everything she did was part of the normal progression. Like any person for whom this was 'natural time', Meredith could make decisions here with no regard for "bloody hypersensitive-diva timelines" (as Jack had been known to call them.) So she'd decided to go trail riding; one of the few pleasures unavailable on steep-sided Capri. This particular region contained a landmark of special interest to her.

The ground leveled off as she crested the ridge. Mare allowed the horse to slow to a trot, then a walk. The overhead blueness expanded to either side as they left the trees behind, emerging onto a grassy overlook. "Whoah, Peregrine!" The bay horse halted, breathing loudly through flared nostrils.

Mare kept tight hold on the reins as she grazed down the further side of the ridge, into the river valley below. A beautiful old farming estate filled much of it, but her focus was on the old manor house, nestled in a shining loop of river. Pale, rectangular, as large and imposing as she remembered. She observed, with unholy glee, that the place was much deteriorated- grimy facade, windows boarded up, decorative features falling askew. And the front yard's 'Six Angels' fountain had crumbled altogether- certainly a more honest presentation!

"If you're looking for the Manor Ghost, twilight's the best time."

Mare whipped head around, chagrined- she ought to've noticed somebody else was up here. The speaker was a friendly-looking blond man, maybe forty, thick-waisted but fit. Wearing olive-green hiking clothes, with a sun hat and spiked walking stick.

Mrs. Norrington answered politely. "I wasn't, actually. I've never heard of a Manor Ghost."

"Also known as the 'Bloody Bride'. Lots of folk come up here hoping to get a gander at her. Especially around sunset." He pointed his stick towards the manor's large front entrance, tracing a line from there to the riverbank. "Pretty young woman, in a white bridal gown all spattered with blood. Running from the house to the river. Supposed to be a redhead." The man eyed Mare's copper tresses.

Mare pressed her lips, as she frequently did when taking a speaker's measure. This one seemed harmless- just an outgoing fellow happy to acquaint a visitor with a local legend.

She loosened the reins to let Peregrine take a bit of grass. "And what does this ghost do?"

"Just rushes to the water and disappears. Supposed to be the bride of the Manor Lord- much older bloke- who murdered him on their wedding night. Stabbed him a dozen times, right in their bridal bed, then fled to the river and flung herself in to drown. A couple gamekeepers witnessed it. The drowning, that is. Or they may have been gardeners. 'Happened centuries ago, and folk've been seeing her ghost ever since. At least a few times every year, always on that stretch between the front door and the river. Our kids like to dare each other to cross that path after dark."

"Uh-huh. Have _you_ ever seen this ghost?"

The storyteller seemed gratified by her interest. "No, but I know folk who have. Or say they have. My mate Bert, for one, and he's not the sort prone to flights of fancy. Swears he was stone-cold sober at the time."

"Why do you suppose the ghost keep appearing?"

"There's more than one explanation. One's that each time she jumps in, a bit of the blood washes off. When the gown's pure white again she'll be fit to enter Heaven, but that's going to take a while. Another has it, her husband turned out to be a violent brute she had to kill in self-defense, so now she's warning other young women not to judge a suitor by the weight of his bankroll."

"That warning wouldn't've done her much good, if she had no choice about marrying the bastard." Mare gave the manor a ferocious glare.

The hiker chuckled. "There's different explanations for that, too. Most oft-told one is that the bride was a foolish naif who eloped against her family's wishes. Problems started when she saw her husband undressed for the first time- hadn't realized 'til then what a decrepit old codger he was. Decided she didn't care to consummate the marriage, so she tricked him into laying down with his eyes shut, and attacked him with a wall decoration. But when she stood back and saw what a bloody mess she'd made of him, the probable consequences dawned on her. She rushed out in blind panic and fell into the river.

"Another version's closer to what you said. Her father was in deep debt to the Lord, and used his daughter for payment. But she a was headstrong gal who refused to get into bed with him. Her husband pulled out a dagger to threaten her, they struggled and she managed to turn it- he might have lurched onto it, or she may have struck. She knew his family's retaliation would be terrible either way, so she killed herself to escape it.

"A third version says the girl was an innocent peasant girl stolen from her home by a lecherous landowner. She knifed him out of sheer desperation, defending her honor. But, pure-hearted maid that she was, she couldn't live with the guilt of having his blood on her hands. There's a couple other endings, but those are the favorites."

"Uh-huh. Do you have an opinion about which is the true one?"

The hiker shrugged. "This many years after, there's probably no way to know. Could be there's some truth in all of them. Or that they're all way off- maybe the whole tale's just a drunkard's yarn. But everyone hereabouts has heard, and told, at least one version. It's even been included in a published collection of local folk tales. You can buy that at the bookstore in town. I mention it because you're interested, not because my brother-in-law owns the store."

"Thank you- I'll keep that in mind." Peregrine snorted, flapping his jet-colored mane.

"Glad to oblige, Miss. Well... I need to be getting home to dinner. You happen to see the ghost, let someone in town know. Good day to you!" The hiker tipped his hat and strode away, taking another downhill route to the village.

Mare turned a thoughtful gaze back on the storied manor. The late-afternoon sun was casting diagonal shadows across the aged facade, making it resemble a frowning continence. But she'd long since outgrown any fear of the place.

There was rustling from a nearby copse and a man emerged- shortish, with a stout wooden cane and a familiar gray hat. The gelding whinnied as he approached. His expression- almost amused, for Murphy- left no doubt that he'd overheard the whole conversation. "What did you think of that, Meredith?"

Mare tilted her head. "Considering how much time has passed, it's strikingly accurate. Though of course I wasn't still in my wedding gown. And I didn't have _that_ much blood on me- certainly not enough to be seen from a distance... I do wonder how arsenic, plus one head blow, turned into a dozen stab wounds?"

"Dramatic embellishment."

"Furthermore, I certainly wouldn't've committed suicide in penance for ridding the world of _that._" She gave Murphy a searching look. "Do _you_ happen to know anything about these reported ghost sightings?"

"I know we're not responsible; we don't stand to gain anything. But I don't think extraordinary explanation is needed, Mare. Once engaged, human imaginations require very little reinforcement."

Mare grinned. "No argument there."

Peregrine was stomping a foreleg, shaking his bit. The air temperature was beginning to drop and he was impatient for his warm stable and feed bag. "Well. I guess I'd better start back while it's still light." Meredith reined her mount around. The animal turned willingly, black tail swishing.

"I'll meet you in town," stated Murphy.

Mare answered over her shoulder. "Make it the bookstore- I want to get a copy of that book. Lysee likes ghost stories, and this one's family history!"

xxx

**FINIS**


	2. Chapter 2: James

_'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney_

xxx

James Norrington stared into his empty coffee mug, almost resentfully. It had been years since he'd felt such strong desire to ingest something more intoxicating. Not that there was any change of getting it now, with all restaurant service suspended until further notice.

He looked up, scanning the glass-walled café. Twenty minutes ago, this place had been filled with normally-conversing Germans and tourists. Just a few huddled clusters of people were left, speaking in bewildered, anxious whispers. Outside, policemen with megaphones were bellowing orders, in multiple languages, for everyone to either leave the area or to get inside until the situation was brought under control.

Only Norrington already knew what was going on, and how it would conclude. Which was no consolation at all. 'The awfulness at the Munich games,' as Jack had once called it, proving he possessed capacity for understatement.

James' eye lingered on the glass door, through which his recent table companion had bolted at the first rumor of trouble at the Olympic Village. The security perimeter would have been erected by the time he got there, so he'd be spared. Eleven of his teammates wouldn't be so lucky.

The former Commodore bowed his head again. Many of these Lo-Haz Missions involved making sure individuals got to their destinations on time, or making sure they failed to. This was the first such job he'd done that involved a life-or-death situation.

And he'd just made an unhappy discovery. Ordering young men into a battle where they might die felt radically different from watching them walk unaware into a situation where it was certain they would... where they'd be given absolutely no chance to defend themselves.

He really, really wanted a sherry.

Somebody stumbled inside- no doubt shooed in by the police. Uneven steps crossed the floor. James looked up, on the verge of requesting that the newcomer find another table. Then he saw who it was.

A flustered-looking Murphy plunked himself down on the facing chair, folding and re-folding his ruffled newspaper. Doing a very convincing imitation of a tourist dazed by this sudden intrusion of horror into the festivities. "Nobody's close enough to hear. We can talk, if you're of a mind to."

Norrington glanced to the entrance again. He couldn't shake the earlier image of two laughing young Israelis- really no more than boys- exiting through it.

"There were a couple other athletes with him when I first arrived. They excused themselves once we started talking about scuba diving. I knew exactly what they were on their way to. What's happening to them now, what's going to, tomorrow. I didn't even whisper a warning." He threw Murphy an accusing look. "Did it really have to be this way?"

"It did, James. This tragedy will have effects well past today and tomorrow. Including some which, in the long run, shall save far more than eleven lives." He was still fumbling with the paper. "One of your colleagues calls this the 'Edith Keeler Syndrome'."

"I remember the 'training film'."* But that wasn't helping much. It would have been so easy to alert Olympic Security about the impending terrorist infiltration. Eleven fine young men could have been saved. Not just the one youngster- a swimmer- whom James had detained with a riveting account of a treasure-wreck dive off St. Lucia.

The senior man addressed him gently. "I'm aware you have nothing more substantial than my word on this. So you can't help wondering; if we really do have your species' best interests in mind, why do we not prevent horrific events from happening? The Hun and Mongolian invasions. The Black Plagues. The Sand Creek Massacre. Any of the genocides- Armenian, Tasmanian, German, Cambodian, Rwandan. Most of my Operatives confront me about this sooner or later. It would be astonishing if none of you did.

"I can only repeat: our first responsibility is, and shall always be, to the Timelines. Responsibility for the welfare of humans..." Murphy's nervous paper-shuffling paused as he regarded James squarely. "You, more than most, realize where that lies."

"I do know. But there's moments when I doubt we're actually adequate to the job."

Murphy glanced out, in the general direction of Olympic Village. "Keep in mind that you're getting a skewed view, since failures are far more discernible than successes. You'd be surprised how many catastrophes have been averted because a few individuals acted in time. Sometimes just one person. Such as that admirable young man whose life you just saved."

Norrington deliberately recalled that narrow, earnest face under dark curls, alight with interest and anticipation. He breathed a brief prayer that the boy not be irredeemably scarred by the upcoming events.

The elder continued. "I can assure you of this: your world hasn't come close to experiencing the worst that can happen. I know of an example, within this very galaxy, of a Timeline that underwent a 'perfect storm' of damaging events. One of the casualties was a planet's entire biosphere- it's a lifeless rock now. Don't imagine we regard that with indifference." Indeed, Murphy looked like he was speaking of a lost family member.

"I don't doubt you, intellectually. But as I can't actually see the positive results from this..."

"... they don't seem entirely real to you. As opposed to the suffering of those two youngsters whose faces you have viewed. That's a natural consequence of being a sight-oriented species."

"Perhaps... it might improve my perspective, if you could give me some better understanding of the Timelines." Under other circumstances, expressing need for a father figure might have embarrassed the almost-fifty James. But Mr. Murphy was his only reliable source.

"I can explain a few things." The being spoke stolidly, even as his nervously twitching fingers continued their charade with the paper. "To start with the basics: you may have noticed I nearly always refer to Timelines in the plural. Because temporal progression isn't like a solid cable running from past to future. It's more comparable to a braided rope, with the number of strands varying from section to section. The exact number is determined by a myriad of factors, but by human standards it's always immense.

"Timelines almost invariably occur in the vicinity of matter, since the two define each other. They cluster most abundantly in galaxies, thickest of all within solar systems. We whom you call 'Murphy's People' are their issuance... their Children. Though it might be more accurate to describe us as their Antibodies, since our function is to protect their existence and furtherance."

This lecture was, mercifully, lifting James' consciousness from here-and-now. "What do Timelines need to be protected from?"

"From any event, interaction or deprivation which could have damaging effects. Albert Einstein was correct; time and matter affect each other, in both creative and destructive ways."

"Do these time-matter interactions account for the 'quirks' involved in time travel?" Norrington guessed.

"For a number of them, yes. There's a limit to how precisely I can explain it to you. Human languages lack the necessary vocabulary words, because humans have never had occasion to invent them. That's not a thing to regret, James. As I've mentioned before, being obliged to keep track of these complexities is a burden your species is _far_ better off without. At least for now."

"Like Adam and Eve, before they ate the forbidden fruit."

"Not quite. I refer, not to moral matters, but mechanical ones... to knowing how very intricate, and in some ways precarious, the workings of temporal progressions are. Having moment-to-moment awareness of how much was going on, and how many ways it could go awry, would be comparable to being continuously aware of all your metabolic functions. How much enjoyment do you suppose you could take from life, if that were the case?"

James grimaced. "'Ignorance is bliss'- I suppose there's something to that viewpoint. Jack seems to have no trouble subscribing to it."

"Your friend is, in some ways, far wiser than his surface suggests. No human could survive for as long as he has, if they had no knack for striking a balance."

That reminded Norrington of a concern he'd pondered before. "I wonder if you could tell me something. Are there any other Operatives with his sort of resilience... who never get tired being alive?"

"Sorry, James, I can't confirm or deny that. It's confidential information."

"I only thought, if Sparrow could meet a woman of that sort..."

"... perhaps she and Jack would have enough in common to 'hit it off', and obtain the same marital bliss you and Meredith currently enjoy." Murphy regarded Norrington sympathetically. "You know why I can't comment on that."

"Because it's dangerous to know much about the future."

"And because human social interactions- particularly those involved in the forming of emotional bonds- are something _we_ can't claim to comprehend. This is why the closest we ever come to 'playing matchmaker' is to place people in the same vicinity. The rest, we leave up to you."

"As you did when you sent Mare aboard the Lady Buccaneer."

"I did that in hopes the three of you would get along. It's been our experience that Operatives with attachments, of one sort or another, make the most effective teams. They'll go to extra lengths to assist and protect each other, as you three did during your shared experience in the Hebrides."

Norrington's eyes narrowed. "So, you foresaw Jack and I would be kidnapped."

"We knew it could happen."

"And you did nothing to prevent it because you knew the long-term results would be largely positive. For you and, incidentally, for us."

"'Knew' is the wrong word, James. My people don't actually operate under many more certainties than yours does. We just have far better understanding of the possibilities and probabilities.

"And speaking of probabilities, I am aware of something else. You've just witnessed how something as simple as lingering- or not- at a café, can mean the difference between a full length of life and a tragically shortened one. Such awareness could make you overly conscious of the possible consequences of every little choice you make. The only sane advice I can offer is: try not to. That's not how a human is designed to operate. The best procedure you can follow is to make the most informed judgments you're able to, and let the rest take care of itself."

"I'll keep that in mind, sir."

They both fell silent. The street outside was virtually deserted, police sirens still sounding in the distance.

James shifted his feet. "I have another question. You've said the fortunes of the Timelines vary. How is ours doing?"

"Average."

"Just average."

"And I have every intention of seeing it doesn't fall below that." Murphy was giving his Operative that same penetrating look. "You, James Norrington, are part of that effort. You may not be feeling proud of it at the moment, but you should. As I think you will, later."

"Mmmm." James rubbed his temples, still wishing for just one shot of sherry.

Finally there was movement outside. A city policeman appeared, raising a bullhorn to his mouth, and announced: "Attention, please! It is now safe to come out the buildings. You may pursue business, but is required: do not approach Olympic Village." He repeated the message in several languages.

People began repopulating the street, though the tone of the urban hubbub had changed- puzzled, dismayed, desperate for information. A boy with a transistor radio quickly gathered a crowd.

Norrington and Murphy stood up, the latter clumsily reassembling his scattered newspaper. "I'd guess you would prefer to return home now, by the most direct route."

"You guess correctly." The pleasant Capri villa seemed most inviting to James' fancy. Particularly since it was the probable location of the one thing on earth which could soothe him more effectively than a drink.

"I do hope Meredith is home."

_xxx  
_

**FINIS**

xxx

* _The 'training film' is the classic Star Trek episode 'City On The Edge Of Forever', by Harlan Ellison. The story involves Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock being transported to 1930s New York City, where they make the acquaintance of admirable social worker Edith Keeler. Unfortunately, they discover they must allow her untimely death, before she spearheads a peace movement which shall delay America's involvement in World War II until Nazi Germany has time to develop atomic-weapons technology and win the war._

_KIRK: She was right- peace was the way!_

_SPOCK: She was right. But at the wrong time._


	3. Chapter 3: Jack

_'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney._

_xxx  
_

Jack Sparrow took a careful look around the corner before proceeding. He'd had over a century to imagine- sometimes in nightmares- what the sinking must have been like for those passengers locked in Steerage. This wasn't anything close to the worse stage. Not yet.

The narrow causeway was clogged with luggage, white safety belts, and plain-dressed people exhibiting various degrees of fear. Nobody paid him more than momentary attention as he made his way through, his sharp eyes scanning every woman's face.

A minute later he reached the base of one of the stairways, tightly packed with agitated passengers right up to the padlocked gate. There he finally spotted her; a petite figure in a blue-and-red sari, head drape not entirely covering a spill of glossy black hair. Jack elbowed his way through the anxious crowd, reached to grip her elbow.

The girl turned fast- a little brown cat ready to claw. Then she saw his face. "Mr. Salomon!"

Sparrow remembered to affect an upper-class accent, as befit successful New York City jeweler Abraham Lincoln Salomon. "Miss Salvi, do please come with me."

Keeping a firm but non-bruising grip on her arm, he drew her out of the press, reversing his path through the fear-crowded passageways. She didn't resist, but her alert black eyes stayed fixed on him. No mousey chit who'd obey without question, as he recollected.

When they'd reached the unpeopled causeway, he faced her squarely. "Sunita, listen: they're not going to unlock that gate in time. Staying down here is a death sentence. But if you'll come with me, I can get you out."

"In exchange for what?" He'd made his interest known a long time ago.

"Let's discuss that later, shall we? This ship is going down fast!"

As if to confirm, a loud structural groan sounded through the hall, and the deck tilted under their feet. Around the corner, several people cried out.

Sunita used a second to weigh her options. Practicality won. "I will come."

"Smart girl." Jack hurried her along the rehearsed route: two lefts, a right, then up another, deserted stairway. At the gate, he pulled out his 'universal key' to remove the padlock. He also hastily checked his large pocket watch. The margin was sufficient. "This way!"

The wench seemed to have greater confidence in him. She stepped as fast as the sari allowed, as they climbed another narrow stairway, opened another door and emerged into a wider, carpeted passage. Jack turned them left, passed two doors, halted at the third. The girl freed her arm, glaring at him. "This is your cabin!"

"I need to retrieve a single item. Please remain here- I'll be less than one minute!"

Sparrow jammed in the key, barreled into the stateroom. Resisting the temptation to look around, he pulled a shiny brown suitcase from under the bed, grasped both rims and wrenched it open. He dumped the contents on the floor- there, a flash of orange fabric! He grabbed the item, stuffing it under his jacket as he bolted back to the hall. The suspicious girl was still there, thank the Powers!

"Excellent, Miss Salvi! Now let's go!"

He steered them back to the stairwell and up another floor. They turned into a stark service corridor, where he brought them to a stop and pulled out his watch.

"What are you doing?" the Indian lass demanded.

"Jus' making sure it's the right time, luv." Jack smashed the watch crystal against the wall and threw it straight down the passage.

Three meters ahead, it vanished in midair. A misty splotch appeared in it's place, quickly expanding to the causeway's height and width. Sunita, wide-eyed, backed up a step.

Jack did seize her then, grasping her above both elbows. "No time ta waste, wench!" He charged forward, propelled them both into the brightness. She emitted a piercing scream...

... continuing as they stumbled from the whiteness, into a sunny green-and-tan room. She spun loose to whirl on him, spitting with fury. "You _chutiya_...!"

"Sunita!"

Jack had rarely seen anybody's face do such a fast 180, from incensed to dumbfounded. A larger gray-haired matron, with a yellow sari and outspread arms, was rushing towards the girl.

"Sunita! Beti!"

"Maa!"

The two women fell into each other's arms, shrieking with shock as much as joy. Which was only to be expected. Sparrow knew from experience that few things equaled the emotional impact of a resurrection. Even an expected one.

The older woman beamed worshipfully at him over her daughter's shoulder. "Shukriyaa, shukriyaa, Shrimaan Sparrow!"

"Koi baat nahin, Shrimati Salvi," Jack replied with a little bow.

Sunita pulled back just a bit, speaking very fast Hindi. Obviously bombarding her Mum with questions. Mrs. Salvi began making equally rapid replies.

"Well. I'll leave you to explain the situation." Sparrow straightened his coat and sauntered towards the bright-painted door. Sunita threw him a far more gracious glance. Jack gave her a grin and wink as he exited.

Murphy, in his usual rumpled wear, was waiting for him in the adjacent kitchen. "Mission accomplished- no snafus!" Jack reported, waving hands reassuringly.

"Very good." Murphy, ignoring the broad gesturing, eyed his Operative's new midriff bulge. "What have you got there?"

Sparrow sighed within. This bloody _chutiya_ didn't miss a thing. He extracted the fabric bundle and handed it over. Murphy, giving a shake to unroll it, examined the item with a curator's eye. Thick but flexible hand-loomed cloth, just the right length and width to use as a shawl. Dyed an uneven reddish-orange, with stripes and diamonds woven in much fluffier dark-brown yarn. He fingered these decorative shapes carefully. "Spun monkey fur, if I'm not mistaken. This is of African origin?"

"My wife's work," Sparrow replied, resisting the urge to rock on his heels. "Her village considered weaving an appropriate occupation fer elders an' invalids. Bein' in the latter category, she was as good as any they had. 'Twas the only item in my luggage I truly regretted losing." He raised his chin. "I established there was sufficient time ta fetch it. Wouldn't of risked it, if there'd been any doubt."

"Jack, whether you had enough time to retrieve it isn't the main concern," Murphy rebuked. "The temporal displacement of objects- even apparently insignificant ones- can have profound effects. I know you're familiar with the concept of the Vital Thread."

"Sever the wrong one an' the entire seam comes apart," Sparrow recited dutifully.

"And it isn't always apparent which threads are which. I was personally involved with an incident where the removal of a seemingly-innocuous goblet set off a cascade of damaging events which we were very hard-pressed to control. It's having effects even into your era."

Jack gave the man credit for conveying authority without any use of vocal theatrics. Murphy simply projected the impression he knew more about a situation than anyone else. Which he undoubtedly did.

"I'm aware, Mr. Murphy. 'Tis why I kept hands off some considerably more valuable objects in that cabin, which could possibly be salvaged someday. But this..." he flicked a thumb at the weaving, "... weren't headed for anything but decomposition at the bottom of the Atlantic. She deserves better."

Murphy regarded his Operative for a long, searching moment. Sparrow returned the scrutiny, as neurally as he could manage. Hoping the man wouldn't force him to beg.

"Don't make a habit of it, Jack."

"I won't." Sparrow knew full well, his employer would consider this as binding as a sworn oath. He wondered if Murphy's People could possibly be Quakers.

Murphy handed the shawl back. Jack managed to take it without snatching. "Thank you."

There was a knock on the door. The senior Salvi stuck her head into the kitchen. "Shri Murphy? Sunita would like to speak with you."

The older man nodded. "This may take a while, Sparrow. If you would please wait here?"

"'Hain't like I've got anywhere ta go, mate."

Murphy followed the woman out. Mrs. Salvi gave Jack another deeply grateful look as the door closed.

Sparrow had a look around the rustic kitchen, located a carved wooden chair and sat. He spread the precious weaving across his lap, stroking it lovingly. "You've no idea how much I've missed you, darlin'."

He'd never known swamp reeds could yield such comfortable fiber, or boiled bark such bright dye, before his longer-than-planned sojourn in southeast Africa. And those hadn't been the only revelations.

Now he lifted a soft fold to his face, inhaled. It still smelled of their hut. Wood smoke, roasted fish, honeycomb... her.

Over a hundred years had passed since he'd spoken her name. Though a grown woman in the eyes of her tribe (as he'd had to constantly remind himself), by the standards of his own culture she'd been a child when she was given in marriage to him. And a scant four months older when she'd died.

He'd never entirely reconciled himself to that. Bad enough for the poor chit to've been born with a dysfunctional heart, making her incapable of any activity more strenuous than light gardening. She'd had the additional ill luck to belong to a culture where such a girl was scorned as a poor marriage risk. Had she died before her menses started, there'd have been less concern. But since she'd had the audacity to survive that long, her own Headman father had bribed a stranger to become her husband, to salvage the family's honor.

Jack, the foreigner who'd happened along at the crucial time, had agreed to the union only in exchange for the offered payment. Nonetheless, he'd done right by the lass. He'd spent those four months living just like the other villagers, doing his fair share of the hunter-gathering and more than his share of raiding bee's nests. He'd treated his child-wife with great tenderness whenever they made love. More uncharacteristically, he'd quickly abandoned any notion of dallying with the prettier native girls- in a community this size it was certain to get back to his missis, and he wouldn't risk making her feel rejected. In a word: he'd made her happy.

She had utilized her loom to express her appreciation. Applying her considerable skills and best materials, she'd woven him the finest garment she was able to: a decorated orange-and-black shawl such as the village men wore on ritual occasions. Jack could still recall the shining pride in her face when she'd presented it to him. And, shortly afterwards, the feel of it around them both, as they'd enthusiastically fallen onto their padded sleeping mat.

Only five days later, he'd been returning to the village with the morning's catch of fish when he hear several women wailing in distress. They'd rushed to meet him, pointing him towards the planted area. He'd found her there, collapsed and motionless between the furrows. Right in the middle of tending crops, her defective heart had finally given out for good.

Jack didn't remember much about the funeral rites. There'd been communal chanting as dried leaves were burned, producing a rusty smoke smelling of marigolds. There'd been placing of hands on the corpse by her relatives, reminding her ghost of their kinship so she wouldn't come back to trouble them. There'd been the shaman shaking leaf bundles as he reminded the assembled not to speak the deceased girl's name for at least one moon-cycle. Even the village's most insolent young men had lowered their eyes and kept their insulting tongues still. Showing her far more regard than they had while she lived.

At sunrise next day, her somber father had handed Jack three uncut diamonds, and gestured for him to leave. The outsider had fulfilled his end of the bargain and received his agreed-upon payment; now it was time for him to go. So Jack packed his few acquisitions, plus provisions, and vacated the village. A few of the residents had eyed him, with no particular feeling, as he'd walked by the huts and through the barricade entrance for the last time. He'd expected no more when he'd struck this accord. But having just spent one-third of a year with these people, it had bothered him that his departure seemed to be a matter of indifference. Only one individual- his late wife's aunt- gave him a goodbye call and respectful head-bob as he'd passed through the gardening area. She always had demonstrated more concern for her disabled niece than anybody else.

Upon reaching the river, he'd turned downstream and hiked beside it for three days, finally reaching a European settlement. There he'd caught a supply barge which took him back to the sea... to his home.

He didn't recall that overland journey very well either. At some point he may have climbed a tree to avoid a hyena pack. His only clear memory was of the noon stop on the first day. He'd sought out the shade of a riverside acacia tree (after checking it for leopards), ingested some strips of dried meat, and settled to wait out the hottest part of the day.

Everything about that interval was as clear as if he'd experienced it yesterday. The muted clatter of flowing water, repeated "Ko-kak, ko-kak" calls of guineafowl, rustlings of a giraffe browsing on the further bank. He remembered unpacking this very shawl, staring at it for a long time. Inhaling it's scent. He remembered tears starting to flow, and being unable to stem them... burying his face into the folds, crying as he hadn't done since he was a small whelp...

His fingers now traced vague blotches on the fabric, where those tears had diluted the dye. He didn't want to discolor this relic any further. But he would make another tribute. Quite a few moon cycles had passed since he'd spoken her name- his way of trying to compensate for the paucity of respect she'd received while alive. He would speak it now.

Jack held the last work of her hands to his lips, whispered into it as tenderly as to a lover:

"Dikeledi."

If he did, after all, add a couple more spots to the cloth, those few more hardly mattered.

_xxx_

**FINIS**

_xxx_

_Hindi Translations:_

_Chutiya- bastard_

_Beti- Daughter_

_Maa- Mother_

_Shukriyaa, Shrimaan Sparrow- Thank You, Mr. Sparrow_

_Koi baat nahin, Shrimati Salvi- Don't mention it, Mrs. Salvi_

_Shri- respected sir_

_-_  
_"Dikeledi" (dee KEH leh dee), a south-African girls' name, is the Tswana word for "tears"._


End file.
